


The Assassin from Antiva

by theLiterator



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, Angst, Dubious Consent, Fairy Tales, Graphic Violence, M/M, Romance, Torture, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/78005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theLiterator/pseuds/theLiterator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Response to challenge 1 on the dao_challenge community on livejournal: Rewrite a classic fairy tale with the characters from Dragon Age.  Optional twist: make it a 'dark' fairy tale, with darker, morbid elements that are closer to the original fairy tales, rather than the Grimm/Disney versions. Boy did I ever go for the optional twist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Assassin from Antiva

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to Traxits for handholding and the thumbs up on the final product, and to everyone in the #swooping_is_bad IRC channel for general handholding and patience.

Vorwort:

_In the Storied Age, in the crippled remnants of the Tevinter Imperium, a pair of brothers met a wealthy man with a strong interest in folk stories._

_They interviewed people from several families with long heritages, and while most of their "Children's and Family's Fairy Tales" were very much Tevinter influenced, a few were influenced by Antivan stories, and even Orlesian and Fereldan tales._

_The collection went through many editions over the years, losing tales and gaining tales, and being translated into many languages, including Qun._

_One of the tales that was lost after the first printing, deemed unsuitable for a collection aimed at children, was the tale of the Assassin from Antiva._

 

The Assassin from Antiva:

_Es war einmal ein Attentäter aus Antiva..._

Zevran straightened his shoulders and faced the master across the ornate hardwood desk, face expressionless though his mind whirled with possibilities. Why _had_ he been summoned?

Master Arainai waited, completely still, and Zevran simply stood before him, back ramrod straight, hands at his sides. He wouldn't fidget, hardly dared _breathe_ when faced with this particular master. He was a capricious man, a slave to his whims, and powerful enough that being summoned by him was a fearsome prospect.

When Zevran finally had to shift minutely to ease a cramp in his leg, Master Arainai smiled at him. That smile made Zevran's blood run cold.

"As you may have heard," he said finally, "my apprentice Ricardo has met an untimely end. I will be promoting you to the position of my personal apprentice immediately."

Zevran had to fight to prevent the emotion he felt at this announcement from showing on his face. It was barely considered rumor anymore that Ricardo had met his untimely end on the point of his master's blade. Zevran wanted advancement within the guild as much as any other journeyman Crow, but not at the cost presented to him now.

"I do not feel that I am worthy of this honor," he began.

Master Arainai cut him off. "I was not asking. I was informing. You will be moved into the room adjoining my private quarters at once."

Zevran suppressed the shiver that crawled down his spine at those words, instead inclining his head in assent.

"Good. We will have you swear the oaths to me tonight in the main hall."

Zevran's mind raced to come up with some solution. Once he was tied to Arainai like this, there was no turning back.

"Tonight?" he asked, trying to play surprised. "But I have nothing to wear! Surely you would want your newest apprentice to wear the finest clothing?"

Arainai stood up abruptly to circle the desk. He came up beside Zevran, and they were of a height. Amber eyes searched amber eyes for _something_ and the master ran a hand through his short-cropped blond hair. Zevran held his ground, unflinching, until the master relented.

"Of course. We will have new clothes made for you tomorrow, and then you can swear your oaths tomorrow night in the main hall," he said with a kindly smile. Zevran licked his lips with relief, but did not dare to relax a single muscle.

"Go now. Your things have already been moved, but I daresay your new room is somewhat more comfortable than your old one."

Yes, the old room, which he had shared with Taliesin up until tonight. The room where he had a loosened bar over the window and a way to leave the complex unnoticed. The room where he had a friend and a modicum of freedom.

"Of course, Master Arainai."

Arainai turned his back on Zevran then, dismissing him, and Zevran left, keeping his steps even and unhurried.

* * *

He knew the way to Master Arainai's rooms-- all of them did, he thought. Or at least all of them who were worth noticing did. The rest of them died early on in training or by a master's hand, and never had the honor of visiting any of the master's rooms.

Some days Zevran envied them, but death had brought him into the world, and he was raised for death. All of that left him clutching at what tiny shreds of life he could find, including his own.

He was, above all, a survivor.

Inside his new room, he looked around. It was lavish with luxury. A huge bed dominated the floor, opposite a vanity, wardrobe, and free-standing mirror. He stalked over to the wardrobe and flung open the doors.

His clothing hadn't been brought up, as he'd suspected. He'd be barefoot and chilled if he left in this state. He abandoned the empty wardrobe for the mirror.

He'd grown his hair long so he could look less like _him_ and more like himself, but it obviously hadn't worked. Perhaps if he'd been scarred during training, if his face weren't so perfect, unmarred, he'd be safe now.

Instead, he was a tool for Arainai's vanity and notions of immortality.

Without thinking, he slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering his reflection.

He would be whipped for losing his temper like that.

His hand bled, and he cursed himself for it. He had risked damaging his only asset. He had nothing without his hands, after all. Who wanted a killer who couldn't mix poisons or hold a knife?

He remembered the women who'd cared for him until the Crows had bought him, how they'd earned their livings on their backs. It would be better to die than lose his hands.

He used his plain linen shirt to wrap his hand and settled on the bed to wait.

* * *

His patience was rewarded, if one could call it that, nearly an hour later. Arainai cast a glance over the broken remains of the mirror and shook his head.

"One would think you had learned self-control by now, Zevran," he said.

Zevran bowed his head.

"Well, come here," Arainai said. Zevran obeyed.

Arainai ran his hand over Zevran's bared back, a slow, soft caress. Zevran knew it was marked only by thin pale scars from the masters' whips, no ridged scars or tattoos, as the others might have.

Arainai uncoiled his whip with the sort of casual cruelty only a Crow master might have, and applied ten strokes to Zevran's waiting flesh.

Zevran knew better than to flinch away or cry out.

"Look at me," Arainai demanded.

Zevran turned to face him and despaired that destroying the mirror had been pointless. He would never escape this face.

He wondered, as he often did in Arainai's presence, what his mother must have looked like for Arainai's features to remain so unblurred in Zevran.

"Come here," Arainai said, seizing Zevran and pulling him in close to kiss. Arainai was one of the few masters who liked to kiss, so it was less familiar to Zevran than the rest of it was.

The rest came, too, in time. After, Zevran lay stiffly on the bed next to Arainai, incapable of sleep.

* * *

The next morning Zevran stretched and did not allow the fact that he had not slept to show in his movements or his speech. He knew his eyes would have circles under them, but there was little he could do about that.

Arainai's servant laid out some of Arainai's own clothes for Zevran, and Zevran felt trapped.

He accompanied Master Arainai to breakfast, where he was given the honor of standing at Arainai's shoulder while he dined.

The other masters said nothing regarding his presence, though he had a few sympathetic glances from the other special apprentices. These, he ignored.

After breakfast, Master Arainai was approached by Ignacio, the sort of man who relied on curried favor for his power, and his apprentice, a mousy human who cringed more openly than most. Zevran reflected that the boy would not survive long, and probably knew it.

"Congratulations, Zevran!" Ignacio said. Zevran inclined his head. It was an honor, yes, but an unwanted one.

He stood a step behind Arainai while the masters spoke in cloaked terms and innuendo. He gathered that someone had been shopping about for a contract on the current chamberlain so they could insinuate their own man into the position. Arainai was reluctant, but Ignacio was considering accepting it and selling it to his boy. Zevran hated the details of this. While he had a mind for the politics, he'd much rather be pointed at a target and loosed.

The discussion of the finer details as to the actual merit of a man's life disgusted him, and he knew that as Arainai's protégé, that was all he had to look forward to.

"If you'll excuse us," Arainai said after some time, "I have promised a gift to my new apprentice."

Master Ignacio inclined his head, and they went their separate ways.

* * *

The sun shone bright into the market, making Zevran sweat in his borrowed clothing. He stared around the familiar square, eyes lovingly tracing the high-water lines on the buildings from the floods just before his birth, the elaborate facing of the Chantry, and the perfectly level paving stones of the square itself.

He did so love Antiva.

There were Dalish in the market today, and that was something he and Arainai shared a fascination for, so they went towards their set-up without discussion, and joined the milling shoppers. The shoppers were quick to make room for Arainai and Zevran, who, while elves, were also wearing the badges of their guild and their positions therein.

Zevran had heard that in other countries, the assassins remained discreet. He wondered how that might work. How would the politicos be kept in line then?

The Dalish wares were expertly crafted and beautiful. There was intricate carving on each bow, and acid-etched inscriptions in the daggers. He picked one up and hefted it. The grip was molded as if for _his_ hand, the balance was perfect.

"Ah, the dar'misu interest you, stranger?" the elf proprietor said.

"Hmm, not so much as that. I already have a fine collection of knives," he responded, instinctively dropping into a haggling tone.

Bargaining prices was an Antivan pastime, and he was better than most at it.

"Well, I would be happy to part with them for three sovereigns."

The price echoed through his head like a bell ringing in the Chantry might.

He chuckled darkly. "Yes, three sovereigns does seem to be the going price for fine weapons in these markets."

Arainai looked up from where he was peering at a leather cuirass. "Fine weapons?"

"Here, master," he said, handing the knife over, hilt first.

Arainai twirled it with a flourish, before testing the blade against his thumb.

"They are very fine," he said after a few moments examination. "Fine enough for a Master Crow's personal apprentice, do you think?"

There was no correct answer, so Zevran inclined his head.

Arainai smiled before turning to the merchant.

"Three sovereigns, you said? What if I want a pair?"

Arainai's impulsiveness didn't surprise Zevran, and neither did the fact that he wore the merchant down to two sovereigns for the pair of them through a mix of threat and blackmail.

The fact that the daggers were handed to him right away, in the middle of the street, and before Zevran had sworn his oaths _did_ surprise him.

He looked into Arainai's familiar eyes and thanked him. Arainai smiled, and Zevran shivered despite the heat.

He did not kiss the blades as a bargain accepted, though. His oaths would be torn from his lips unwilling, if he had any say.

"Now, I believe I promised you clothing as well?" Arainai said, and together they went on to the next stall.

* * *

Zevran, despite the lack of mirror, knew he looked every inch the obedient assassin. He had on new clothing, a deep, satiny black outfit that was cut in the latest style, and the new daggers were sheathed at his hips. His boots were soft and supple leather dyed black, unrolled to mid-calf. The whole of it was brand new.

Putting on the clothes had reminded Zevran that there was no point to delaying the inevitable.

His hair had been twisted into several braids and twined into a single queue at the base of his neck.

_"I wish you would cut it," Arainai had said while Zevran had endured it being dressed into the latest fashion. _

_ "I prefer it long," he'd said. "I can hide things in it, should the need arise." _

_Arainai had run his hands through his own hair, thoughtful. _

He followed Arainai into the hall, a step behind him, ever alert.

The food that was laid out was finer than usual, which meant that Arainai had meant for this to be a ceremony of a sorts. Zevran took a seat at his new master's left hand, and proceeded to eat very little. The fare tasted of ashes.

He paid enough attention to the conversation around him to remain on his guard, but let his thoughts drift otherwise.

He hadn't considered it before, but-- perhaps it would be possible to run after he swore the oaths?

He suppressed the shudder the thought brought. No. Breaking an oath was simply not something he was capable of doing. Once the words passed his lips, he was trapped-- if he had ever been free to begin with.

Arainai, after all, had clearly been biding his time, waiting for Zevran to be promoted to journeyman Crow and not get killed straight off.

Something impinged on the edge of his awareness and he tracked it out of the corner of his eye.

It was Rinna, approaching from where she had been sitting with Taliesin and the other journeymen. Why she would so boldly approach, he did not know. Female Crows tried to be noticed far more rarely than the males, and Rinna less frequently than most. She was a stunning woman, with dark hair and a full body, and she was drawing attention to herself now.

Why?

Then, instinct and awareness kicked in, and he had his dagger out and between her and Master Arainai before he could think. Arainai jerked away, but did not draw his own weapon. Zevran moved fluidly to his feet and drew his other dagger.

"Why?" he said aloud.

"Just get out of the way!" she shouted, but Zevran could not do that. Rinna had gone insane, for all he could tell.

He disarmed her with his left hand, and then smoothly buried the dagger in his right in her breast.

She looked surprised for a moment, before she slumped to the floor, dead.

Zevran stared blankly at her body. He'd known her very well. She'd had sex with him several times before settling on Taliesin, and even then, they'd sometimes shared. Her eyes looked up at him, unblinking, and he said a silent apology.

But everyone knew that the Crow masters were untouchable.

And if Rinna had taken an outside contract... he had given her mercy.

The other people in the room hurried to remove her body before it made too much of a mess, and servants quickly came with wine, righting several chairs and starting to mop up the mess of her blood.

One journeyman tried to return Zevran's dagger to him, but he stared at it incredulously. Who could possibly want a dagger they'd spilled a lover's blood with?

Arainai took it instead, and slapped Zevran across the back.

The brief spark of pain that brought reminded him of the mirror, of his reflection. Maybe he was not meant to run away.

Arainai offered the dagger to him too, hilt first. Zevran stared at the stain of blood on the master's hand. He hadn't even _tried_ to defend himself.

The blood belonged on Zevran's hands.

"Will you take your oaths?" Arainai asked.

Zevran shook his head, unfeeling.

Arainai dropped the dagger to backhand Zevran.

"Will you take you oaths!" he demanded.

Zevran tasted blood where his lip had been cut open on his teeth. So much blood.

"No," he said.

Arainai screamed. It was a shattering noise of frustration and defiance. No one disobeyed Arainai.

"You _will_ take your oaths!"

"And how do you propose to force me?" he asked calmly, feeling dissociated from everything.

"You and you, seize him," Arainai demanded, gesturing to two journeymen.

* * *

Zevran was taken into a basement; the Crows' complex had several. This one was less fearsome than the worst, but more fearsome than the best.

He was bound to a table, hands stretched before him, palms flat against the wooden planks.

For the first time since he'd killed Rinna, something resembling emotion flashed through him.

It took him a moment to realize that it was fear.

"These hands," Arainai said, running his fingers delicately over the backs of Zevran's hands. "They were meant to kill."

Zevran was helpless in the restraints, in Arainai's glare. He couldn't even nod.

"But if they will not kill at my command, they are useless," Arainai said softly.

Zevran shook his head, a broken, pleading 'no' falling from his numb lips. One of the journeymen handed Arainai a hammer, and Zevran couldn't stop the 'no's from forming, dropping useless off his tongue like stones into a river, barely making ripples but trying to stay its course.

The first fall of the hammer made him go rigid, every muscle and joint locking against the agony. The second made him cry out in pain for the first time since he was seven years old.

After that, it was all he could do to stay conscious. He could feel himself screaming, but could not hear it over the soft thud of a hammer hitting flesh.

He was not entirely certain when it ended, but Arainai suddenly bent down close to him.

He was kissed thoroughly and lovingly.

"Tomorrow, a healer will come from the Chantry, and we will have another discussion, my son. Tonight, however, I do not wish to see you. You will find someplace else to sleep."

With that, Arainai left.

After a few more minutes, with Zevran trying to control his breathing and the journeymen looking on with disgust, they released him and hauled him to his feet by his upper arms.

He could barely stand.

They dragged him up to the main foyer, but there he shrugged them off. The both left, after that, left Zevran to find his own way.

For a few minutes, he was tempted to do the obvious thing and seek out Taliesin and his old bed in the room they'd shared for the evening. To wake up tomorrow and receive the expensive mage-healing he'd need; to swear his oaths and be trapped forever, but whole.

The choice between wholeness and freedom was shockingly difficult, but eventually he turned to the large doors which opened on the market, and was infinitely glad to see they hadn't yet been locked.

Once outside, he carefully gathered his mangled hands to his chest and ventured into the market square.

* * *

Pause:

Harel watched the lone figure as he emerged from what Harel knew to be the Crows' complex.

He shivered slightly, recalling the eerie elves from earlier who had purchased the dar'misu. They'd clearly been related, but then the elder had handed the dar'misu to the younger with all the ceremony of giving a gift.

The superstitious part of him had wished to warn them of the curse such action would bring, but the rational part of him had decided to remain silent. He'd recognized the badges of the Crows, and hadn't wished to draw more attention to himself than necessary.

The person who he'd been watching walked oddly, hunched forward with his arms tucked up against his torso.

Harel licked his lips, and knew he'd regret the action, but he trotted over to meet the person before he'd half crossed the square. The sun was setting, painting the square and all in it brilliant pink and orange, but he recognized the person right away.

It was the younger elf from earlier. His hands were oddly contorted where they were gathered against his chest, and turning all sorts of horrible bruised colors.

He stumbled at the sight. Who would dare injure a Crow so?

Breath catching in his throat, he caught the elf's attention. "Come with me," he offered, gesturing to his stall where Kay, blind though he was, was deliberately and slowly packing up the caravan.

Once it was full, he would pull it by hand out of the city to where a few halla had been pastured, then he would hitch them up and they would return to the Brightmore clan.

The elf looked at him, startled, then relieved. He inclined his head, and kept apace of Harel.

When Harel resumed packing the caravan, the elf looked a little lost. Harel smiled at him. "I do not expect you to work, injured as you are. Kay will do what he can for you tonight, and when we meet the clan, our keeper may be able to help you further."

The elf looked completely shocked. "Can... can they be healed?"

"Perhaps," Harel said gently. "It will be some days before we can meet the healer, and the damage appears to be extensive. But you should have some use of them."

The elf nodded. "If I stay, they will pay the Chantry for a mage-healer to do the job. But for that... I must stay."

Harel nodded in turn, before sliding into one of the harnesses. The elf looked at the harnesses, then at Kay, before holding his arms out.

"My legs work fine," he offered.

Harel assisted him into the harness, because he knew these flat-ears didn't like what they saw as 'charity', and then they were on their way.

* * *

The Whore with the Vallaslin:

_Dann kamen die Prinzen von Ferelden auf die Jagd..._

Zevran looked around him, reveling a little in his freedom, though it had been nearly two years. Of course, Ferelden stank of wet dog and was icy cold on the best of days, but here he was allowed to come and go as he pleased.

He lived in an Alienage, yes, and worked in a whore-house, but the Alienage was a close, accepting community, and the Pearl was perhaps the nicest house of ill-repute he'd been in, and he'd been in quite a few.

He had porridge before him, not the finest fare, but food to fill his belly nonetheless, and people he could count on in a pinch, though even crippled he was perhaps the most deadly among them.

He sighed, then carefully forced his fingers to grasp the stem of the spoon, though they would only ever close loosely around it, and it _hurt_ to do it.

He forced himself to eat, as he always did. There were worse situations-- he could be dead; or worse, he could be losing his soul bit by bit to the Crows in Antiva.

No one here knew him as a Crow, they simply thought him Dalish; perhaps exiled for his disability.

He certainly looked the part.

Ashalle, the keeper of the Brightmore clan, had done her best to heal him, and had accepted him into her clan with open arms. It was not until months later that he learned that it was because he resembled her younger sister, missing almost twenty years. If he'd had suspicions of Arainai's pure vanity before, he had near proof now.

He hadn't dared ask about any other missing clan members. That thought did not bear thinking on.

Kay had taken him under his wing, and eventually Kay's cousin had suggested the vallaslin as a method of changing his appearance, after one too many mirrors had been broken in Kay's caravan.

Zevran rather liked the result, and so did the clients.

He stood and collected the empty bowl and spoon. It was not so bad today, the pain. Some days it was far worse, and he would be forced to let the other whores help him dress, to let the cook clear his dishes for him.

He hated those days.

Today, Sanga had asked him to sit in the main room and look handsome. It was something he was not averse to doing, as it drew customers. Sanga tried to rotate the whores, so everyone had a fair chance of being employed and being paid.

Today, something seemed slightly amiss though. A pair of men came in; brothers, by the look of them, and surrounded by guards, and the wait-staff bowed and scraped for them more than usual.

One of the brothers, fairer than the other, and more confident, spoke to two of the elven girls and took them back right away. Ranelle and Serina often worked together, but they were also quite picky about who they allowed into their rooms. He was a bit surprised that they had required so little persuasion to accept the man as a client.

The other, whose hair was cropped very short in the fashion of the Fereldan military, took a seat at the table nearest Zevran's and ordered ale. Sanga herself brought it out.

She had just set it before him when the door burst open, and the guards all reached for their weapons as a hound came flying in.

The guards instantly relaxed, settling back into chairs or leaning against walls, and the hound clambered half into the brother's lap.

The brother smiled sheepishly at Sanga, a rather endearing smile, and said "I'm terribly sorry. Ripper is still very young and has no manners. He's a very bad puppy," the last spoken very sternly. The hound yelped, and Zevran snorted. The hound hadn't been a pup for months, if not years.

Sanga bowed to the man. "It is no problem, Your Highness," she said, and Zevran jerked in his seat. The Prince? Here?

But they said that Prince Cailan was wont to look for pleasure outside of the Princess's bed, and it was also said that his brother hardly left his side, for all it was rumored he might not be King Maric's son, but rather his advisor, Teyrn Loghain's get.

The hound, Ripper, had gotten very excited when Zevran had jerked to attention, and managed to wrestle free of the Prince's grip to bound over to Zevran.

Zevran wanted to be disgusted, but the hound was sweet in his exuberance, and Zevran found himself lightly patting Ripper's head. Flattening his hand against something was much easier than trying to grasp it.

The Prince stood and came around to Zevran and Ripper, tucking his fingers under Ripper's collar with an ease that would have made Zevran sick with jealousy even a few months ago.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "Ripper, _down_!"

"Oh, it is not a problem," he said with a seductive leer.

The Prince beamed. "Ripper's just really friendly. He likes it if you scratch his ears," he added expectantly.

The thought of forcing his fingers to do something like that made him flinch, and the Prince was instantly contrite.

"Sorry, sorry! I don't know the right thing to say in a situation like... this," he finished lamely, with a gesture that managed to take in the whole of the room without being grandiose.

This man was utterly unlike any nobility Zevran had ever met.

"I was not offended," Zevran covered smoothly, licking his lips and looking up at the Prince from under his eyelashes.

The Prince blushed, "O-of course not," he stammered. "I-I'm sorry..."

Zevran continued smiling, and made his hand rub the hound's head. The hound snuffled and sighed before collapsing bodily against Zevran.

Zevran felt the sultry smirk he wore like a mask slip into something softer.

Sanga inhaled sharply and the Prince bit his lip.

"Uhm... is it rude to ask if you work here?" He again made that hesitant gesture around the room.

"Well, I am sure someone who did not work here might take offense at such a question, but as I do, I am not offended." He managed to bring that smirk back to the fore.

"May I sit?" the Prince asked.

"Of course," Zevran said, inclining his head politely. Sanga quickly transferred the ale to their table.

"Are you Antivan?" the Prince blurted.

Zevran could _feel_ the rest of the room leaning in, listening hard. He rarely allowed personal information pass his lips, but he could hardly deny the Prince when he'd asked so blatantly.

"Sì," he allowed. "What gave me away?"

"Your accent, for one," the Prince answered. "And that head-tilt thing you did. I've never known anyone to do that except Antivans."

"Ah," Zevran sighed. "Do many visit your court?" he asked. It was impertinent, and not something he would normally let slip, but he longed for news of home.

"Oh, well, the Cousland heir's wife is Antivan. But aside from that, not really. Probably too cold for them, if Oriana is anything to go by."

"Yes, it does take some getting used to."

The Prince stayed silent for a few minutes, contemplating his ale.

"So," he said quietly. "What's the, ah, protocol for... uhm."

Zevran smiled, dislodging the hound from his legs and standing.

"Would you like to accompany me to the back?"

The Prince stood as well. "Stay," he ordered Ripper. Two guards came over instantly, one clipping a leash to his collar and the other offering a treat. Ripper whined.

* * *

In the dim closeness of one of the back rooms, Zevran could relax. This was his element. The Prince, on the other hand, had grown considerably more anxious once the door had closed.

"But what about money?" he suddenly demanded.

"Sanga will take care of that," Zevran explained calmly. "It will cost forty silver. And you are of course welcome to leave a tip, should you think my service warrants such."

The Prince paced across the room and back twice more before he settled again.

"What-- what do I call you?"

"Whatever you like," Zevran replied easily. The Prince whipped his head around to stare at Zevran, and he continued, "But my name is Zevran."

"I can't believe I'm actually doing this," he said at length.

"Your first time, then?" Zevran coaxed.

"With... with someone who's being paid to... to do this, yes."

Zevran patted the bed next to him lightly. "I will not bite," he promised.

The Prince joined him on the bed, and then surprised Zevran by touching him without prompting.

"This... is fascinating," he murmured, running a rough thumb over the design on his cheek.

Zevran smiled. "The Dalish call it vallaslin-- blood ink. I believe the Fereldan word is 'tattoo'."

The Prince nodded, and then leaned in to capture Zevran's lips in a tender kiss.

As unpracticed with whores as he might be, he did know how to kiss, and Zevran encouraged him with lips and tongue and teeth.

The Prince reached to tug Zevran's shirt off, and Zevran obliged, but could, of course, not return the favor, as the Prince's shirt was buttoned.

After a few minutes, the Prince pulled away. "Is something wrong?" he asked.

"No," Zevran said. "It is all very right, I promise."

"But you haven't..." he gestured vaguely at himself.

"Oh," Zevran said, and then raised his hands for the Prince to see. "I cannot, you see."

The Prince seized Zevran's right hand with both of his, examining it minutely.

"Who would do such a thing," he breathed.

"It is the past," Zevran said with a sense of finality, as he had many times before.

"But, then how do you--"

"Many prefer their partners have at least the appearance of helplessness. I simply... provide them that feeling of superiority."

"Oh," the Prince said, then "I didn't..."

Zevran shook his head, leaned closer. "Come, we were having a lovely time up to now." The Prince did not succumb, but pulled away a little.

Zevran frowned. "If you would prefer someone else, I can easily call someone."

"No," the Prince said. "No! I was just... startled." He pulled Zevran's hand close again and pressed a gentle kiss, feather light, to Zevran's palm. Zevran shivered.

The Prince pulled away again, this time to strip himself quickly, before moving in on Zevran's trousers. Zevran smirked down at the man kneeling between his legs, but didn't even consider making such a suggestion.

Then the Prince was on the bed again, and on Zevran, devouring him, touching and biting, pressing him back against the pillows until Zevran was on his back with the Prince straddling his hips.

"Is there--" he broke away to ask, and Zevran gestured slightly toward the bedside cabinet. The Prince blushed at what he saw in the drawer, and withdrew only the small jar of oil.

The Prince prepared him gently and thoroughly, until Zevran was writhing and ready to beg, but the Prince didn't ask for that.

Instead, he lined himself up, hesitating at the brink. "Is this okay?" he rasped out.

Zevran couldn't speak, a little surprised by the question and aroused as he was, but he managed to nod his consent; the Prince thrust home, and Zevran cried out in pleasure.

* * *

The Prince held his clothes for him to dress, after, and Zevran was hard-pressed to resent him for it, so earnest was his expression.

He followed the Prince from the room, and when they re-entered the common room, Ripper broke free from the guards who held him, standing to press both paws against the Prince's chest and lick his face. Zevran laughed a little.

"Down!" the Prince ordered. Ripper didn't even seem to hear him.

The other Prince, Cailan, separated Zevran from his brother. "Thank you," he said. Zevran nodded, not knowing why he was being thanked.

Cailan clapped him on the shoulder, and then gathered the guards, his brother, and Ripper with a single glance and left.

Zevran stared at Sanga.

"Isn't the Crown Prince married?"

Sanga shook her head, letting out a relieved laugh.

"You have no idea what you just did, do you?" she asked, a hint of breathless incredulity in her usually even tone.

"I took the bastard prince of Ferelden as a client?" he offered.

She grabbed a bottle of the finest Antivan red they had behind the bar, a Barolo.

"Maker, Zevran. Ever since that Cousland boy got killed, Prince Alistair hasn't touched anyone. Prince Cailan has been forcing him to come with him when he makes the rounds. He comes here every six, eight months, and always, _always_, Prince Alistair simply sits here and nurses a single mug of ale."

"Ah," Zevran said, settling back in his chair. "I don't recall them coming before."

"We get a heads-up so we can clear our other patrons and put our best employees up front, and... You weren't exactly stable when you first came to us."

He inclined his head, conceding the point.

"And... Antivan? That's... not the selling point I've been using."

"I know," he said. "But as you said-- I was not exactly stable. Would you have accepted an unstable Antivan elf into your stable?"

She raised an eyebrow at the pun, but shook her head.

"Anyway," she said after a moment. "Prince Cailan gave me three sovereigns for that and--"

Zevran stood abruptly, knocking his wine glass over and spilling the fine red over the table.

"Zevran!" she said, alarmed, but he was already out the door and on the streets.

* * *

Once in the open air, he kept going, walking blindly through several alleys until he emerged into the market district.

Fine Orlesian silks, Fereldan wood-crafts, arms and armor, nearly everything one could hope to buy was represented. Though in Ferelden the Dalish stayed away from the cities, so there was nothing of theirs for sale.

He found his way to the Chantry and crept inside. The Templars nodded to him, and he made his way to a pew, where he sat heavily.

The Maker had turned his back on the mortals, or so they said, and the Chantry knew how little people were worth, but he wondered if any of them had had assured to them so many times in their lives exactly how much they _were_ worth.

A bitter, hysterical laugh bubbled up in his throat, and he gripped the back of the pew in front of him tightly, distracting himself with the pain.

After several minutes of quiet, furious contemplation, a man joined him on the bench. Zevran looked up, and recognized Conlin, a bouncer at the Pearl.

"Sanga was worried," he explained, and Zevran nodded.

"Are you better now?"

Zevran nodded again, and Conlin gently took his elbow to guide him back to where he belonged.

* * *

It was nearly three months before the Prince returned, and this time he was without his brother.

He was dressed in the garb of the Fereldan guard, and had only two guards and Ripper with him. Zevran raised an eyebrow when he pulled his helm off. In Antiva, such was almost an invitation for assassins.

But this was hardly Antiva.

Prince Alistair smiled at him, and stumbled over his words, and tipped him outrageously afterwards; only one and a half sovereigns this time, so Zevran was doubly pleased.

He leaned to kiss the Prince's cheek in farewell, but the Prince turned at the last second with a sudden thought.

"You should meet my cat!" he said.

"Your... cat?"

"Well, yes! You know Ripper, and you know Kallian, but you don't know my cat!"

He jerked up straight at the mention of Kallian, as the tenement he rented was the one over her father's home. He'd been the one to give Soris his dar'misaan on the day of that fateful wedding.

He left that aside, for now, and focused on the cat. "Does this cat have a name?"

"Well... no. He's just a baby still, though, so we have time. Cailan said I should name him Tom."

"Is that not the custom in Ferelden?"

"Well, yes, it is, but Tom isn't really a name for a royal pet, is it? I want something _vicious_, like Ripper, so none of the other cats are mean to him."

Zevran snorted.

The Prince grinned broadly at him. "So you'll come then?"

"Come?" he asked hesitantly.

"To the palace to meet my cat! Say you will, please?"

Zevran hesitated. He found it incredibly hard to say no to Prince Alistair, and it was not due simply to the man being a prince.

He sighed. "Perhaps on a day off, I might try," he hedged.

The Prince's face lit up. "Oh, that's wonderful! You'll have to talk to Kallian about coming with her then. And do come soon, I'm sure my cat will like you!"

Zevran nodded weakly.

"And think of a name," he added, before bounding off of the bed and striding out the door.

* * *

That was what found him sitting uncomfortably in the Tabris kitchen, staring at Kallian as she dictated to him.

"And you can't go dressed like that," she concluded.

"I can't... why?"

He looked down at his clothing, a too-large linen shirt with a deep, open collar, close fitting trousers and worn boots. It was what he always wore.

"You look like a whore," she said bluntly.

He laughed, spreading his arms as if to show off his body. "But my dear Kallian, I _am_ a whore, and the son of one too."

She opened her mouth to protest, and he leaned to brush the tips of his fingers lightly over her lips.

"I will not pretend to be some servant, bowing and scraping for the Prince. I may be a whore, but I am _proud_."

"He saved my life, do you know that?" she asked. "I was about to be hanged, and he said 'why are you hanging my elf,' like we were together. He said he was with me that day, and he _saved my life_," she said all in a rush. "So you will respect him, whore or not."

Zevran inclined his head, contemplative.

"He collects strays," he mused aloud.

She shrugged. "Maybe."

* * *

It amazed him exactly how invisible elves were in Ferelden. Of course, they were generally second class citizens, but in Ferelden, they were simply ignored. It presented large security concerns, Zevran could see.

They were allowed in without any questions, though Zevran hadn't changed his clothing, and though they were headed straight for the bastard prince's quarters.

The Prince greeted him with a warm, hearty hug and a brilliant smile, and ushered him over to the hearth where a scrappy looking kitten, too small to be separated from his mother, was wrapped in some torn purple velvet. Ripper lay next to the bundle, ears perked, but he settled once he sniffed Zevran's hand.

Zevran ran a crooked finger delicately over the back of the tiny creature's head, and it let out a squeak. He smiled, and the Prince smiled back.

Thus, he came to spend what free days he had with the bastard prince of Ferelden.

* * *

The first Zevran heard of the ball was from Prince Cailan, who had come into Prince Alistair's rooms to yell at him.

"I heard you were spending time with a whore!"

Zevran resisted the urge to point out that he was right there, instead allowing Scrappy to chew on his fingers and staying as still and silent as possible.

"You're the one who dragged me to every brothel in Denerim!" Prince Alistair returned, cheeks flushed.

"So you could get over Cousland, not so you could fall in love with some Antivan elf whore!"

"What has his nationality got to do with it?" Prince Alistair demanded, brows knit in confusion.

Zevran spoke up, unfolding from his sitting position to be on even footing with the men. "Antivans are very dangerous, especially for someone as inconvenient as yourself, my Prince," he said.

"What?" Prince Alistair said. "But you're not..."

"I am not dangerous, no. But many Antivans are, especially those who venture beyond the borders of their country."

"And I'm _not_ inconvenient," Prince Alistair said firmly, a set look on his face. "I've made no move to claim the throne, I haven't even _considered_ becoming politically inclined."

Prince Cailan sighed a little, allowing himself to make eye contact with Zevran briefly. Zevran understood the look to mean that the Crown Prince had done his best to keep his brother safe from the schemes of the freemen of Ferelden. Zevran inclined his head very slightly, and was gratified to see Prince Cailan's posture relax equally slightly.

It must be burdensome to be heir to the throne and love one's brother; if that brother was seen by all others as a threat to one's succession, and indeed to the proud heritage of the Theirin bloodline.

Prince Cailan turned to Zevran abruptly, with an intense stare that made Zevran stand up taller, made his smirk slide into a more serious expression. This was a man who would one day be king.

"You aren't here to kill my brother," he said, and Zevran knew it was not a question. It was an ultimatum.

"If the Crows were to be contracted for any in your house," he began delicately, "they would not send a cripple."

The Crown Prince nodded slowly.

"Antiva is going to war, and have sent a delegation to barter for more lumber exports. We are going to be honoring them with a ball tonight," Prince Cailan said.

Zevran held up his hands. "As much as I admire your desire to keep everyone safe, not only am I an elf in Ferelden, but I am a crippled elf in Ferelden. I cannot do what you wish me to."

Prince Cailan shook his head. "You will come tonight, and if everything goes smoothly, I will continue to make sure the rest of the nobility is blind to my brother's stray elves, the murderer and the whore."

Zevran deflated, though he understood. The Crown Prince was scared for his brother's life, and unless Zevran was sorely mistaken, he was the only person in the palace who actually cared.

There were so many other things he could ask, about Prince Cailan's personal safety, about why he was playing this card tonight of all nights.

Instead he inclined his head. "If either of us dies tonight, Kallian still goes free," he bartered. He had been raised in Antiva; he knew how to haggle.

"She killed an estate full of unarmed guards and an Arl's son!" Prince Cailan said with some heat.

"Yes. But she is not on the table, or there is no point to me doing this thing."

He watched as the fight flowed out of the Crown Prince's posture, and he felt sorry for the man. "Agreed," Prince Cailan said at last.

Zevran forced his right hand to close around a silver bread knife on the nearby table, to hand it to Prince Cailan handle first. When he uncurled his fingers, his whole hand trembled.

Prince Cailan kissed the knife and tucked it into his belt with all the proper solemnity, then he turned to leave.

Prince Alistair sagged without his brother's presence in the room. "You don't have to," he began, but Zevran shook his head.

"I agreed."

The Prince ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair in frustration, before saying "You'll need something to wear."

Zevran smiled and said "I have something. I will return in an hour."

The Prince sighed heavily.

As Zevran walked past him to leave, his hand shot out, catching the elf's elbow. The Prince pulled Zevran close to him and kissed him hard.

"Thank you," he said, and Zevran felt lighter, somehow.

* * *

Zevran had put on the outfit from the night he'd left the Crows, and the belt with the daggers' sheathes and the single dagger. It was familiar, being armed, even though he doubted he could use the dagger.

The guard eyed him at the doors, but he must have had some knowledge of Zevran's presence, because he let him pass with only a cursory sort of questioning.

Either that, or the security really was very lax.

He made his way to Prince Alistair's side, and followed him as he made small talk. The politics of Ferelden were far less twisted than those of Antiva, but the routine was familiar. He allowed himself to relax into familiar instincts, fully aware of every movement around him, and partially aware of the conversations of his mark and the nobility fawning over him, subtle barbed phrases meant to wear him down.

He wanted to hurt every one of them. It was hardly likely that Teyrn Loghain was Prince Alistair's sire, and it wasn't as if it had any bearing on Prince Alistair's character anyway.

But still he was called the bastard prince.

After about an hour and a half, the Prince turned to Zevran.

"Dance with me?" he said, a hint of pleading in his tone, and Zevran could see the upset in his eyes.

He had long since stopped saying no to Prince Alistair.

He arranged his hands lightly on the Prince's shoulders so as to cause them no pain, despite the unconventionality of the pose, and allowed the Prince to lead him in a sort of improvised waltz. It was fun, but never did Zevran's eyes stop scanning the crowd.

The song was only half completed when a familiar dark head caught Zevran's attention. He disentangled himself from the Prince's grip, intending to head him off, but was too slow.

He stepped between Taliesin and the Prince in time to receive a deep slice in his shoulder. Taliesin's face registered surprise, but he recovered quickly, darting back a step and readying his dagger. Zevran drew his own, ignoring the pain of muscles protesting and crookedly knit bones straining tendons and ligaments, and brought it up in an inexpert guard.

It had been too long.

"This is none of your concern, Zevran!" Taliesin snarled, trying to dance sideways around Zevran to get at the Prince.

Zevran wondered frantically where in the name of the Maker the guards were.

Zevran managed to get in and attack, darting in close and shoving his whole body up and under Taliesin's blade.

He wasn't sure which of them was more surprised when the move actually worked and the dagger went skidding across the floor. Zevran pressed the advantage, pushing the tip of his own blade against the hollow of Taliesin's throat.

"Guards!" he shouted, and his hand started spasming. He jerked it away and dropped the dagger, unwilling to inadvertently injure Taliesin.

The Prince took a few steps to reach Zevran's side, and Zevran wanted desperately to sag against him and become invisible again.

But of course, that was when Master Arainai appeared. Zevran snarled, and leapt at the man, unarmed though he was.

"You used _Taliesin_?" he demanded in Antivan.

"You were not supposed to be involved," Arainai responded in the same language.

"Yes, but-- this was a suicide mission. And you used _Taliesin_," he said, still in Antivan.

Arainai calmly caught Zevran's right hand in his own, petting it even as it trembled. Zevran tried to pull away and couldn't.

"I had to find someone to replace you, after your... accident, and he seemed the most able."

Zevran felt white-hot rage fill him, and tried again to pull his hand back.

"Such a shame, my son," Arainai said softly.

The Prince intervened suddenly. "Unhand my guard," he commanded, and in that moment seemed almost as capable as his brother.

Arainai raised an eyebrow, but complied.

The Crown Prince made his way over finally, and took command, ordering the guards to take Taliesin out, and Arainai and the other Antivans to return to the guest quarters. He told Prince Alistair to tend to Zevran's wounds in another room, and that he'd speak with them later.

The Prince wrapped an arm around Zevran's shoulders and ushered him from the hall, whisking them away to his rooms.

"Are you okay?" the Prince asked, even as he drew out linens for bandaging and a poultice to soothe the wound from a draw in his desk.

"I have endured worse," Zevran said with a crooked grin, and the Prince snorted, even as he expertly dressed the wound.

Prince Cailan entered then, and sat next to Zevran on the bed. He had both the daggers from the fight in his hands, a matched set.

"I was right, then," he said.

"About what?" Prince Alistair asked, surprised.

"About your elf. A Crow then?"

"No longer," Zevran asserted.

"I see that. But still useful?"

Zevran shrugged. He made his living on his back, which was indeed useful-- to a point.

"Good. Then you will stay in the palace, as my brother's guard," Prince Cailan said, offering both daggers, hilt first.

Zevran opened his mouth to protest, but the Crown Prince continued.

"And, Alistair, I think it is best if you never marry. Having heirs would give the Bannorn even more to worry about, with you," he said gently.

Prince Alistair smiled up at Prince Cailan, eyes bright with wonder. Zevran understood that he was being offered like a sop to Prince Alistair's pride, and that Prince Alistair was eating it up.

Zevran eyed the daggers warily. He took one, and said "I will do my best," before kissing the blade and sheathing it. He shook his hand gently to relieve the strain, but did not reach for the second dagger. He was not sure he could be what the bastard prince wanted and needed him to be.

"Please?" Prince Cailan said, and Zevran shook his head.

"I can't promise that," he said.

Prince Alistair turned confused eyes on Zevran. "I don't understand," he said.

Zevran tried to smile at him, but couldn't quite manage it.

Finally, he exhaled. He couldn't say no to Prince Alistair, and it looked like he couldn't say no to Prince Cailan either.

He took the second knife, kissed its blade too, then sheathed it at his waist.

Prince Cailan patted Zevran's arm gently before standing to leave. He hesitated at the door and said "The Antivan delegation will be leaving tomorrow, trade-agreements in hand."

Zevran felt himself relax.

Once Prince Cailan was actually gone, Prince Alistair turned his smile on Zevran, and Zevran helplessly responded in kind.

"Thank you," he said, and leaned up to kiss Zevran, who returned the kiss with equal ardor.

_... und sie lebten vergnügt bis zu ihrem Tode._

**Author's Note:**

> Anhang:
> 
> _Zu Der Attentäter aus Antiva:_
> 
> This story is very much drawn from three specific tales: [Allerlei-Rauh](http://de.wikisource.org/wiki/Allerlei-Rauh_%281819%29) (in English [All-Kinds-of-Fur](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Allerleirauh)); [Das Mädchen ohne Hände](http://de.wikisource.org/wiki/Das_M%C3%A4dchen_ohne_H%C3%A4nde_%281819%29) (in English [The Girl without Hands](http://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Girl_without_Hands)); and [Prinzessin Mäusehaut](http://de.wikisource.org/wiki/Prinzessin_M%C3%A4usehaut) (I can't find an online English translation, but it would be called "Princess Mouseskin" if it existed, I think).
> 
> These three tales only exist in earlier editions, and rarely in published translations, likely due to content. In the 1812/1819 editions, they are tales 65, 35, and 71, respectively.
> 
> The style is deliberately broken up by the German lines because it is meant to be seen as a folktale, well-rehearsed and often told by Tevinter hausfraus to their kinder. The German sentences themselves are common fairy-tale tropes: "Once upon a time there was an Assassin from Antiva," "Then came the Princes of Ferelden on a hunt," and "They all lived happily ever after."
> 
> I used the actual story of the Brothers Grimm for my "Vorwort" on purpose, using the introduction to one of the copies of their collection as my inspiration (It is called the Älteste Märchensammlung der Brüder Grimm, and it was edited by Heinz Rölleke.) I used the same collection as my reference for the tales themselves, and not the wikisource versions linked above.
> 
> I make no claims to my actual fluency in German-- I comprehend at around a middle-school level and can barely speak or write it. I did live there for five or so years, for what that's worth.
> 
> In writing this story, I used the three tales above for inspiration, and I elaborated (oh did I elaborate) or changed many details. The result is the sort of monster I never want to write again, but I do hope you enjoy it.
> 
> If you read it, please spare a few moments to comment, whether it's to point out an error, offer constructive criticism, or to simply say "&lt;3". It makes my heart beat faster when you do! If you are uncomfortable commenting on AO3, you can always comment to the entry on livejournal [here.](http://community.livejournal.com/dragonage_fic/61403.html?mode=reply)


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